How to Mysteriously Make Your Nation's Day Better
by hbananad
Summary: Sometimes it only takes a little to brighten a day. And sometimes advice comes from the strangest of places. Papa!France, Grownup!Canada. Fluff, cuteness, and no real pairings.


You should probably just assume all dialogue is in French. Also, if this isn't proof that I'm a sucker for the parent/child aspect of France and Canada, I'm not quite sure what is.

**Disclaimer: **I don't know why I bother with these. Hetalia pretty obviously isn't mine, or I wouldn't be writing fanfiction now, would I…?

***#How to Mysteriously Make Your Nation's Day Better#***

It was just not his day, France decided moodily as he slouched on a park bench.

Which was obviously unfair. Really, here he was on a lovely spring day in the middle of the glorious city of Paris itself, with not a cloud in sight and the cheerful babble of life all around him. His mood, on the other hand, did not match at all. _Non_, today had been a terrible day.

First of all, _l'Angleterre _had decided that three in the morning was a _lovely _time of day to call and rant at him (why the other nation, who was usually dead to the world from nine o'clock in the evening to six-thirty on the dot, was up at such an hour was a matter to be perused later. Much later.), and then he couldn't go back to sleep, so he had finally gotten out of bed around five to make a cup of coffee when he discovered that he was out of coffee. After a quick trip to the store (which, his luck, didn't open until six. So he stood out in the dark for almost an hour) to purchase more coffee, he discovered that his coffee machine was apparently broken.

(It made this fact known by exploding. Violently)

So he changed into clean clothing and set out for a café. Which, conveniently, didn't open until seven. Another half hour spent waiting outside. And then the barista had gotten his order wrong, which didn't matter anyway because he tripped over a pigeon (stupid birds were everywhere) and spilled the coffee all over himself.

And there was no clean clothing this time, because his boss had called and told him to get to the Louvre _now_ and he had arrived and someone (he suspected Romano. _Salaud_.) had drawn mustaches on nearly two hundred of the (priceless) paintings there. Fortunately, they were all covered in glass, which could simply be replaced, but not before the museum opened the public at nine. He nearly tore his hair out in frustration as an entire wing of his precious museum was closed 'for cleaning.'

And as he had left the Louvre, he had tripped over another pigeon and gotten more coffee spilled on him as he careened into a random pedestrian. And actually made contact with the ground this time, so he had also managed to scrape his palms (which _hurt)._

And now, several disasters later, it was a gorgeous, sunny afternoon and he was miserable.

It just wasn't _fair._

"Mister? Are you okay?"

Startled out of his self-pity, France looked down to meet large, concerned eyes.

"I… I suppose I am. Overall."

Those eyes continued to stare at him, attached to a small face full of youth and innocence. "You don't look okay. Why?"

He hadn't intended to spill his heart to some random kid, but something about this little blonde girl in a pale blue dress with her grave manner and big blue - almost purple - eyes brought to mind a child an ocean and several centuries away. So he told her about his terrible day, and she hoisted herself up on the bench next to him and nodded sympathetically. And after he told her about his day, he found himself bringing up how she reminded him of his son, who loved far away in Canada and how neither of them got to see each other very often.

"Lucille? Where are you?" An elegant woman appeared in view, looking more than slightly worried as she attempted to find her child.

"That's my _Maman." _The girl said matter-of-factly, hoping down from the bench. Turning back as she started down the path, she gave him a stern look. "You better call him, okay? I bet he misses his Papa." With that, she ran off to jump into her mother's arms.

France watched them for a while, waving slightly back at Lucille when she turned again to wave goodbye.

He found himself reaching into his pocket and dialing a familiar number that he didn't dial nearly enough.

One ring. Two. Maybe this was a bad idea-

"Hello, Matthew Williams speaking."

Or maybe not.

_La République française_ smiled. They day looked nicer already.

_"Bonjour, Matheiu…"_

***#Translations and Notes#***

_l'Angleterre – _England

_Salaud – _Bastard

_Maman – _Informal 'mother' (equivalent to 'mom' or 'mama')

_La République française – _The French Republic (France's official name)

_Bonjour – _Hello (literally 'good day')


End file.
